Posts (page 2)

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

This just in.

Police believe that Corinne Bailey Rae is among four people killed in a helicopter crash on her estate in Scotland.

Our thoughts are with the Bailey Raes at this difficult time.

 

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

This just in.

Police believe that Corinne Bailey Rae in among those killed in a helicopter crash on her estate in Scotland.

Our thoughts are with the Bailey Raes at this difficult time.

 

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

This just in.

Police just said Corinne Bailey Rae might have been killed in a helicopter crash on her estate in Scotland.

Our thoughts are with the Bailey Raes at this difficult time.

 

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

I just heard. Police just said Corinne Bailey Rae might have been killed in a helicopter crash on her estate in Scotland.

Our thoughts are with the Bailey Raes at this difficult time.

 

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

Here's a nice coincidence.

I started a book this week called The Killer Angels. It's a novel about the Civil War, which holds an interest for me.

So does bluegrass, which is why I forked out when Steve Earl recorded an album with the Del McCoury band a few years ago. My favourite song on the album is called Dixieland, which is about that same conflict.

I lost the album a few years ago and it wasn't on itunes and I couldn't be bothered to order it.

What I didn't realise until this week is that a character in the song also appears in the book. I looked up The Killer Angels On Wikipedia this week and in the footnotes it says:

Singer-songwriter Steve Earle included a song on his 1999 bluegrass album, The Mountain, called Dixieland, sung from the point of view of the fictional Buster Kilrain.

So I checked on itunes and, of course, the album is now available.

It's told from the point of view of a soldier who came over from Ireland and fought in the 20th Maine under Colonel Chamberlain.

On to the song - it's got your staple banjo, acoustic bass, fiddle, guitar and mandolin, but check in a penny whistle and Steve Earl's voice and it's chilling.

You get that with a lot of Celtic music, which sounds happy but that's just a false ease, like how Scousers call you "friend" right after they threaten to kill you.

What makes it terrifying is that it sounds like a happy song, but the turn of phrase leave you in no doubt the protagonist would not only tear you a new one, but he'd probably charge you for his troubles. Yes, your rock gods sound like they can fly, but this guy would rather enjoy making you do it.

The way he pronounces every word perfectly scares me. He'd probably like a bit of pleading.

So I joined up with the 20th Maine
like I said my friend I'm a fighting man.
Marching south in the pouring rain,
we're all going down to Dixieland.

Listen: Dixieland

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

Now we come to a portion of the blog that I like to call "What's In My Bag", where I zzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

Mints, Extra Strong
USB memory stick (containing posts, contacts, CV, including my great British novel - have I mentioned?)
Gum, Sugar free
Ventolin inhaler
Nachos and cake
Ipod
Laptop
Two spiral bound A5 notepads
Three number two pencils
Sunglasses and case
Keys
Phone
Office swipe card and digital secure network login gizmo
Umbrella
Four bottlenose dolphins

What do you want from me? It's Friday.

Coincidence and a song tomorrow - it's like the blogging equivalent of a Kinder surprise.

Have a good weekend.

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

"Another," my fellow commuter nods, in a pause, towards to field over the road, "almost ethereal mist."

These were the first words spoken to me this morning and it made a difference. I pointed out the hanging blanket of fog to him in the same space, at the same time yesterday. He said he'd never seen that before and we smiled at the mist as we waited for the bus to come.

Right now, a song by Kathleen Edwards has just come on, and the lyrics in the chorus said "So don't get down, good things come when you stop looking when you stop looking."

It's a song I have never heard before, given to me this week by Roger from work because he thought I'd like it, free and for no other reason.

Right now, across the aisle of the bus, someone who is learning English is filling in speech bubbles over cartoon captions, under a title on the exercise sheet which says in bold letters: The Future And Degrees Of Certainty

I instantly know that is going to be the title of today's post, which five minutes ago had no theme, title or words.

Yesterday wasn't the best good day. A few things went wrong and I had no idea what to write about without sounding down and I don't want to bring that onto you. I changed that a little last night by having omelet, drinking a good beer, watching the England match with the sound turned down while listening to an interview on NPR with the music director of The Simpsons. At the time I thought this summed me up pretty good, which is why I include it here.

The only thing I had written yesterday for today was this:

First frost's coming on, and with it longer shadows and slim prospects.

It's like I can already feel it, the turning of the final months, grinding like old gears until it's just me and winter. I'll win, but on points and punching above my weight.

The lack of daylight gets me, and it grows worse every year, almost as if the winters are getting longer and only for me, while others enjoy summer, although they may as well be on the other side of the world.

Which would have just brought you down. And now, that has changed, thanks to Kathleen Edwards and an ethereal mist and a headline across he aisle.

It's important to remember how quickly things change. How emotions are the weather at sea.

I can be in one mindset, with nothing set in my mind, and look around, moment by moment and things grow different. The world can seem a little kinder, and I can have something to say that I might pass on to reflect those things here.

I can do that. I forget. On a cold autumn morning, maybe I can help.

The illustration is a painting called The Colours That Burn From Us by Dan Beard, reproduced here with his kind permission.

Find out more

about Dan and his work. He's a brilliant artist and a lovely guy, despite or perhaps because of the adversity that comes with being my cousin.

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

I have a confession. Last night it finally happened.

Last night I dreamed about this blog.

I was having trouble with my wireless network and I wanted to publish a post. I skulked around with the laptop trying to find a signal in various parts of the house, but it was no use.

I went and got my old modem and plugged that into the phone line, but that didn't work either, so I hooked the wireless one back in and resolved to publish when I got to work.

But as I plugged the line back in, the phone rang. I mean really rang, in real like like ten seconds after I reconnected the modem in my dream. I opened my eyes and the clock by the side of my bed said 3:10AM.

The phone rang two and a half times before the other person hung up.

Puzzled and perturbed, I went downstairs to check my mobile in case someone was trying to get in touch with me urgently in the middle of the night. I thought I may have left my phone on silent, as I have been known to do. Nothing on my mobile - no missed calls, no waiting voice message or texts.

It's the first time I have dreamed about this site, but it doesn't worry me at all. Another part of the dream was that everyone at my work had found my blog. At the same time. But I was OK with that. A few years ago I wouldn't have been, but now a bunch of colleague have Facebook pages and it just seems that blogs are real life, rather than a virtual imitation of it. Which it never was, by the way, it just seemed like that once.

Blogging is just writing, expression. It's live. Blogging is to the written word what punk was to music. Books might seem distant, like the movies, but blogging... Blogging is theater.

It's live and this, right now, is happening.

Anyway, so I went back to sleep and started dreaming again.

In my dream I sat at my computer, went to my blog, and wrote these words.

I have a confession. Last night it finally happened.

No, only joking about the last bit. But what an ending, eh?

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

Here's something no one knows.

You know those prayer wheels in the Buddhist tradition? Monks and devotees have them and they have blessings written on the side of them. They are on an axel so when you turn them the prayer gets dispersed and out off. Like prayer flags, same principle, out into the blue then hopefully back out of the blue.

Well, what if you could stick prayers onto something else that goes round? There's a prayer on my hard drive in the same principle and tradition. I put it there so that maybe it'll do its thing. So it whirrs around as I go, as I write, as I ride the bus which drives into town, doing its thing, going Om Mani Padme Hum in a technical mantra.

Here it is

It may do nothing, or - it may be a part of everything.

Buddha said: "See things as they are and you will be comforted", which is echoed by the title of this website.

This is a little confessional, I admit, and there have been many posts like this that I have immediately regretted publishing, but these are usually the best ones. It's always difficult, but if I can't say how things are, then really what are we all doing here. Not just here but here.

Here's another quote, from Florence Allshorn:

"The dissipation of egoism is always a tearing, tormented process but without it there is no hope of grasping something beyond. You can not have both."

So this prayer is now stored (impermanently) in your internet cache folder if you have one so you're sending it out too, and if you don't believe in internet cache folders, then that's cool too.

But it might work, for all we know.

And, more importantly - for all we don't.

Have a brilliant day.

Originally published at This Is This. You can comment here or there.

The headline for this was going to be

Eyo. Eyay. Eyay-oh.

...like the thing that Sting does at every The Police gig. If you're a fan, or were there, you would have got it. But that's the kind of obscure headline that search engines are never going to find. I've been getting kind of funky with clever headlines, and nobody likes a wise guy, least of all Google.

Considering one of my most commonly-found pages has the title "Is Snooker A Sport?" I should probably step out of the shadows and make my headlines a bit clearer. So anyway. gig review. Well, not so much a review as a "What I did at my The Police concert."

I got the train there, and grabbed some food on the way to the ground. But it was amazing. Honestly, cheese and spices pasty and a really cold Kronenberg 1664 - nothing beats that. No only joking, it was unbelievable - I got the train from Staines and even managed to get a seat. But seriously, I was impressed. Did you know Twickenham has escalators and carpeted bars?

All right, stop. (Collaborate and listen)

I met up with my buddy Jude, who is learning to play the drums (although he is good already). He had never seen Stewart Copeland, which is a bit like a chef who had never seen a potato, and I was talking him up in the way I would a hot blind date I'd set him up with. I should point out in the wake of my metaphors that he is married and has lots of potatoes.

"Just wait," I said before the gig, "he is the best drummer in the world."

"Is he fast?" he asked.

My mind went: "Is he fast? He made the Kessel run in less than twelve parsecs." but I said: "No. He is brilliant."

I explained that if someone asked us to play the hi-hat in a song, we would not measure up worth a damn to what he'd do, but he could play a whole kit as well. (Interestingly, he does play the hi-hat only on Big Time by Peter Gabriel)

When they came on, he was impressed. We were both in awe.

"He's a motherfucker." I said and turned to him in the second song. He smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

Andy Summers was incredible, laying off blues scales and producing longer guitar breaks than I've seen him do, with absolute mastery to produce face-melting solos.

Sting? Numpty. Given. But in fine voice and singing while playing syncopated rhythms.

If there's a weak point to The Police, in all honesty, it's their songs, but they make them sound so good.

The only low point was the Invisible Sun, played to a backdrop of sad Iraq and African kids.

"What's this song about?" asked Jude.

"Northern Ireland," I said.

- "But..." he thought.

- "Yeah, I know..." I thought.

And maybe Next To You wasn't the best encore.

But King Of Pain? More like King Of Kicking Ass.

Stewart Copeland bounding from tipani to glockenspiel and gong, coming in halfway through the bar with the snare sound from the gods. Pavarotti said about his voice: "It is a gift. God kissed my vocal chords." If that's true, then Jesus sucked his drumstick.

When Sting did the roll call at the end, I actually did the "we're not worthy" arms. It felt like the right thing.

I'd like to take my hat off at this stage to Wendy, who had tickets to go with me and couldn't because of her move to Scotland. I feel bad for even writing this because she ought to have been there listening to me insult Stewart Copeland. Anyway, Wend - I thought you like a mench in one of the worst gig reviews ever written.